A New Leaf
by twasadark
Summary: Dean decides to, well, turn over a new leaf and live the time he has left to him differently.
1. Chapter 1

Title: A New Leaf – Gen (1/? Works as a One-Shot)

Author: XinaMarieUhl

Rating: PG for mild language

Spoilers: Through the end of Season 2.

Disclaimer: I disclaim everything. Forever. And ever. Amen.

Words: about 900

Summary: Dean decides to, well, turn over a new leaf and live the time he has left to him differently.

Notes: A WIP that works quite well as a one-shot … more is coming soon, though. It's actually written for a challenge, but can't say which one or it will ruin the surprise for you! Betaed by Harry Potter Fan Fic writing genius Cheryl Dyson.

Sam had been bitching about how hungry he was for 47 miles (Dean had noted the first bitch on the odometer) when they finally stopped in some nameless diner off the Pennsylvania Turnpike. The frizzy-haired waitress took forever to serve them, but as soon as she'd plunked plates of burgers and fries down in front of each of them, Sam snatched his up like a beggar who hadn't eaten in three days.

Dean considered his brother and felt some inner conviction tell him it was time. Right here, right now—no more waiting, and no more fear. Well, maybe a little fear. Or a lot.

Dean cleared his throat. "Sam, look. I have something to tell you – and I'm only going to say it once, so I want you to hear me, okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Sam said distractedly around a huge mouthful. "Man, this is good – aren't you gonna eat yours?"

As if he could right now. Later, after he'd done the unthinkable, said the unsayable. Or whatever.

Dean took a deep breath. There was only one way to do this. And that was to just spill the beans. Heart pounding like a war-drum in his ears, he opened his mouth. His voice sounded surprisingly calm and strong.

"Sam, I love you."

Sam kept on chewing for a moment, his attention on the French fries piled on his plate like a spill of cordwood. If cordwood were yellow, and covered in grease. With ketchup on the side. Okay, bad analogy, but under the circumstances Dean couldn't be expected to come up with anything that required more wit and intelligence than that.

Sam didn't say anything for a moment, didn't even seem to have heard Dean. Dean saw the exact instant that his words penetrated Sam's hunger-crazed brain, because his eyes widened and locked on Dean's. He froze, like a deer in the headlights, and his jaw dropped to reveal partially chewed hamburger, bun and lettuce.

"Dude, that is just gross," Dean said. "Come on, I thought you outgrew 'see food' in the fourth grade. Close your mouth, will you?"

Sam tried, blinking. Then he said, "You--" but he couldn't talk around the huge mouthful. Instead, he chewed desperately, like the burger had suddenly turned into dry, lumpy sawdust in his mouth. Man, what was it with all the lumber references?

Sam swallowed finally, and wiped his mouth with a napkin. His eyes hadn't left Dean's.

"Did you say that you love me?" He said in a hushed tone, his eyebrows raised almost as high as his hairline.

Dean shrugged, felt his throat tighten. God, he hated all this touchy-feely crap. But he had to do this. A little more than eleven months from now and the Crossroads Demon would come collecting her payment. Before that, he had a lot of living to do. And a lot of that had to do with taking care of Sammy.

"Yeah, I did," Dean said. "And I do. More than pretty much anything."

"You … I don't know what … wow," Sam said. He looked dazed. Like Dean had just hit him upside the head with a 2 by 4.

So, good. Sam seemed to understand. Thank God _that_ horror was finished. Dean sighed in relief, and popped a fry in his mouth. Now, time to get down to business. "Hey, pass me the ketchup, will you?" he asked.

Sam barely looked at the bottle as he pushed it toward Dean. He was still staring at Dean like he'd just come back from the dead. But the dazed look evaporated as a slow, wide smile spread across his face, indenting his cheeks with those deep little pits. Or dimples. Whatever.

Sam said, "Um, I--"

Dean put out a hand to stop him. "Look, don't say it. I didn't tell you so that you'd tell me back. I just wanted to make sure you know, is all."

Sam grabbed his hand, warm and strong. "Dean," he said. And oh, God, he was talking in that _tone _of his, that gentle, wondering tone. The earnest, sappy one. But before Dean could make a wisecrack to ruin the moment altogether, Sam went on.

"I love you, too."

Warmth surged through Dean's chest, unexpected and so damn powerful that he thought he might have fallen on his ass if he hadn't already been sitting down. The clamor of the diner, the rush of color and activity of the world around them, receded. Suddenly Sam's face, his smile and the fall of his hair, the pattern on his blue and white plaid shirt, appeared clearer and more vivid, more detailed, than he'd ever seen before. Instinctively, he knew that this was one of _those_ moments, the ones that would remain forever, imprinted on his brain like a timestamp, indelible and eternal.

Fleeting, too.

Dean nodded at his brother, and released Sam's hand, suddenly very interested in shaking the ketchup out of its glass bottle. Sam didn't try to hang on, just went back to devouring his hamburger. But he kept smiling for a long time.

--

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	2. Chapter 2

Title: A New Leaf – Gen (2/3)

Author: XinaMarieUhl

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: I disclaim everything. Forever. And ever. Amen.

Words: 2,100

Summary: Dean decides to, well, turn over a new leaf and live the time he has left to him differently.

Notes: Written for LiveJournal's Schmoopfest. Betaed by Harry Potter Fan Fic writing genius dysonrules.

--

They pulled into Cambridge in the afternoon, and drove around through the narrow, cobbled streets looking for a motel or room for rent near Harvard's library. They found the right place right away, a one-bedroom with kitchenette and a frickin' claw foot tub, for God's sake. The building was nice and well-kept, for a change: a brownstone located a mere ten-minute walk from the Theological School's library.

"See, it's meant to be," Sam said, smiling.

Dean sighed in exasperation, not wanting to tread that path again. Sam had known what he was doing when he chose Pre-Law for his major, Dean reflected. His baby brother had argued like a son-of-a-bitch for three straight days about how they needed a home base for a month or two. All right, maybe three.

"Or four or five or six?" Dean had asked snidely.

Sam simply shrugged and said, "Whatever it takes to save you."

"Yeah? What about all those things that escaped from Hell? Who's going to save the people who'll be tortured and killed by them?"

"We're not the only hunters out there, Dean. We can still hunt, as long as that hunt is within driving distance so I can continue my research. This library has the biggest – and oldest – occult manuscript collection in the U.S. Which means there has to be something about deals with demons. I need to be here for a while, Dean. I'm not losing you. I'm just not." He said it with finality, like that was the end of the discussion.

Dean complained, and bitched, and brought up the fact that something could turn up on a hunt to help them. And blah blah blah blah. None of it did a bit of good. Sam could be as stubborn as hell when he wanted to.

So in the end they went to Cambridge. Sam seemed unusually happy about it, too.

"Man, look at this place. There's Harvard. Frickin' _Harvard_, dude. The first college in the U.S., founded in 1636. Right over there," he pointed to a park, "is Cambridge Common, where George Washington took control of the army during the American Revolution." It just looked like a park to Dean, with all the usual park things: grass, trees, a few homeless guys sharing a sip of something from a brown paper bag on a bench. What was so great about that?

Sam was still babbling on about how awesome this place was, how he couldn't believe they'd never made it here before, and _Dean don't you even care about our history?_ Dean was getting a headache from the effort it took to clench his mouth shut. Damn, but he wanted to call Sam a geek. And not just a geek, but a supercalifragilisticikspealidocious geek.

On the other hand, he kinda liked seeing Sam excited about something. Kinda liked seeing him at all, truth be told. The whole death thing had made Dean grateful for everything to do with Sam.

Besides, Dean had to admit that it was a nice place. Shops and bars and restaurants all in a neat little row, with old-fashioned awnings and shuttered windows and brightly painted signs. All over the place he saw green leafy trees and flowering plants, fresh-faced college kids on bikes, and girls walking two by two … lots of girls with long hair and short skirts and those little spaghetti strap tops that bared their smooth shoulders …

Yeah, maybe this place wouldn't be so bad after all.

--

Or not.

Dean tried to help with the research. He really did. He planted his butt in one of the library's soft fabric chairs and leaned over the table to carefully turn the pages of the old manuscripts that Sam kept dumping in front of him. The hawk-eyed librarian, a skinny old guy wearing a _cardigan_ for Christ's sake, made he and Sam don plastic gloves to "protect the pages from the oil on your skin." And the old guy would absolutely, positively NOT allow Dean to drink his morning java while he looked at the books, even if he did manage to sneak it past the front door in Sam's backpack without spilling a drop.

Anyhow. Dean could help out for a few hours in the morning, as long as he could take five or six breaks and fidget enough (tapping his pencil on the desk, drumming his fingers on his thigh, jiggling his left foot to Black Sabbath's Heaven and Hell), but beyond that his vision blurred and he thought his head would explode from sheer, agonizing boredom. Just like school. Except for shop class. And mechanics when they rebuilt a Chevy 454. But that was beside the point.

That first afternoon, right about the time when his head was in imminent danger of implosion, he cleared his voice and asked to ask nonchalantly: "How long do you want to be here today?"

"They close at 8:00."

Dean's poker face must have been on vacation then, because Sam took one look at him and snorted with laughter.

"Just get out of here, will you? Research is my thing, not yours. Go have a beer or scope out some chicks or something."

"No. I want to help," Dean protested weakly.

"Dude, you're not helping. You're distracting me."

Oh. He couldn't have _that_. He scratched his chin. "Guess I'd better go, then."

Sam quirked a grin at him. He looked tired, dark shadows under his eyes and a strained look across his forehead. "See you back at the room tonight."

"Yeah, sure."

He barely managed to keep from running out of the building.

Cambridge was the kind of place built for walking. So that's what he did, walked and walked and walked, learning the lay of the streets, noticing the bars he'd hit in the evenings, doing a circuit around that George Washington park, just thinking and moving and thinking some more.

He passed the visitor center two times before a thought occurred to him and he went inside to chat the attendant up. By the time he emerged, he had a plan. Now, if he could just keep it secret from Sam …

--

Three days later, Dean woke at 4:20 am and dressed as quietly as possible, trying not to wake his brother. Dean had barely seen Sam since they took up residence in Cambridge. Sam opened the library and closed it every day, walking home by 8:30 pm and trolling the Internet until 2 or 3 am each morning. Sam had never been able to handle loss of sleep very well, so Dean figured there was no way in hell he'd wake up.

Except that he did, just as Dean was reaching for the doorknob, Impala keys clutched in his hand.

"Dean?" Sam asked, voice gravelly from sleep. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Where are you going?"

"Uh … couldn't sleep," he improvised. "I'm going out to get breakfast: I'll bring something back for you."

Sam squinted at the curtains. "Breakfast, now? It's still dark. It's … 4:32 am. No place is going to be open this early."

"Don't worry about that, I'll find something. Go back to bed."

Instead, Sam swung his long hairy legs off the bed, ran his fingers through hair that looked even wilder than usual. "No, s'okay. I've got stuff to do. I'll come with you."

Dean felt his stomach drop. He cleared his throat, trying to modulate his tone to keep it casual. "You need your sleep, dude. You're still a growing boy."

Sam peered at him, always looking for the meaning behind Dean's words. Even while half awake. "You don't want me to come?"

Damn it all to hell. It was friggin' 4 am. Dean couldn't think of an excuse that wouldn't make Sam suspicious. And now that he'd dragged his own sorry ass out of bed, he sure as hell wasn't going to try to do this another day. It was now or never.

He sighed. "Come on. No talking, though. And no asking why."

Sam opened his mouth to ask just that, then closed it again. Now he really was suspicious. Oh, hell.

Outside, Sam slid obediently into the Impala's front seat and stayed silent as Dean drove them down the darkened streets, following directions the visitor center attendant had given him. He took the freeway for a short jog before taking the Arlington exit and tooling down the Fresh Pond parkway, turning here and there. Sam crooked a thumb at a street sign labeled 'Winchester Avenue,' and grinned at Dean. The area was heavily wooded and peaceful, with sleeping houses whose colors and lines were slowly sharpening in the lightening grayness. Dean parked the car on a side street just down the block from the Mount Auburn Cemetery, and walked along the street with Sam trailing. When he found a suitably secluded part of the street, he wedged his foot in the cemetery's wrought iron fence and vaulted over it. Sam stood on the other side, looking puzzled.

"Isn't is the wrong time of night for us to be breaking into a cemetery?" he asked.

"No questions, Sammy," Dean reminded him. Then, to Sam's worried expression, he said, "We're not here on a hunt."

"We're not here for breakfast either," Sam said. His eyebrows drew together. "Are we?"

Dean guffawed. His brother was such an idiot sometimes.

Sam clambered over the fence and they walked together through the forest of oaks, cedars and beeches so huge and gnarled they must have been a hundred years old, and down winding little paths and through hidden groves and gardens containing hundreds of species of flowers, shrubs and plants. The place must have been hundreds of acres big. All along the way little clusters of elaborately carved gravestones populated the grounds, appearing more like works of art than monuments to the dead. When they passed a small gothic-style chapel with intricately sculpted turrets and elegantly patterned windows, Sam's breath caught. Dean pretended not to notice.

At last they came to a glassy-sheened lake. Dean found a bench a few dozen yards back from the shore that afforded a perfect view of the lake and the round-Greek-columned monument peeking out of the trees on the other side.

Sam sat next to him tentatively, glancing at Dean every few moments, apparently expecting a zombie to claw its way out of a nearby grave. Dean leaned back, feet crossed at the ankles in front of him, the back of his head resting on the bench.

"Chill, Sam," Dean advised. "All we have to do now is wait."

It didn't take long until the sun rose, rays splaying out to pass through tree branches, illuminating leaves dozens of shades of green, making the crisp green grass glow, and painting the lake with silver highlights. Everything around them was so still, like the earth itself was holding its breath. But as the sun rose, it began to awaken. Birds chirped and darted back and forth, fish jumped, and a family of foxes peeked from behind a tangle of ferns. Everything seemed fresh and new and alive. Ironic for a cemetery.

When Dean rose at last, Sam joined him reluctantly. The walk back through the grounds to the Impala seemed totally new, the light revealing details and depths that had been hidden in the darkness. They didn't speak as they hopped the fence and climbed into the Impala.

Sam didn't say anything about what they had done, didn't even give Dean a sly sidewise grin, or laugh to himself about his bad ass brother getting up early just to watch the sunrise. In gratitude, Dean took him to Starbuck's and bought him the biggest mocha frappa grande thing they had. He didn't even bitch about it.

--

Feedback, please! You'll rack up some good karma – I promise!

Note: Part 3 coming in about a week. BTW, I've never been to Cambridge, so I may have gotten some of the details horribly wrong. But I did research Harvard and the Mount Auburn Cemetery, which is supposed to be a lovely place to visit. It's also the first cemetery in the U.S. Yeah, I dig graveyards. Pretty weird, eh? Oh, well …


	3. Chapter 3

Title: A New Leaf – Gen (3/3)

Author: XinaMarieUhl

Rating: PG-13 (some cussin')

Disclaimer: I disclaim everything. Forever. And ever. Amen.

Words: 3,400

Summary: Dean decides to, well, turn over a new leaf and live the time he has left to him differently.

Notes: Betaed by Harry Potter Fan Fic writing genius CherylDyson.

--

Dean didn't object when Sam continued hunching over the books at the library, muttering to himself and taking yellow legal pads full of notes, day after day. He didn't comment when Sam left half his dinner next to the laptop because he was too busy clicking from webpage to webpage to remember to finish it. He didn't even nag when Sam leaned his head against the cool tiles in the shower and fell asleep with water running down his back. Twice.

But when the imp (nasty little fucker) they chased into a day care center in Boston flung one of those tiny little kid chairs into Sam's shins and he tripped, wrenching his back in the process and causing him to hobble around like a crippled old man, Dean had had enough. Sam insisted on heading into the library the next day even though it took him ten minutes to shuffle from their room to the Impala.

Instead of stopping in front of the library like Dean promised, he passed it by in favor of the urgent care center around the block.

"You bastard," Sam fussed as Dean hustled him through the front door. "I told you already, I took some aspirin. I'll be fine. I need to get to the library: I'm onto something now. Every hour I'm not there is an hour that some other researcher could request the books I need and then what would we do?"

"Don't get your panties in a wad," Dean said. "We'll be in and out of here in an hour and then you can get back to your moldy old books."

Except that the doctor nixed that idea pretty quickly.

"Mr. Miller," he said as he poked around Sam's back while Sam perched on the examining table and tried to look like he wasn't in agonizing pain. "You have huge knots in your shoulders and lower back. Have you been under an unusual amount of stress lately?"

Sam glanced at Dean sheepishly and said, "I guess you could say that."

"I often see similar symptoms in the students around here. Harvard draws only the best and the brightest—and the most obsessive. Too many hours studying and not enough time relaxing, combined with the fall you took (Sam told him about tripping, but thoughtfully left out the creature-from-hell portion of the story) was too much for your back." The doctor looked down his bespectacled nose at Sam. "You need to learn to take it easy, young man."

He ordered a hefty dose of Vicodin, a stretching routine, and no studying for 3 days.

After a brief, loud argument in the car on the way back to their room, Sam agreed to stay away from the library for one day. Dean blocked his efforts to prop the laptop up on his belly as he lay in bed. With no research to do, Sam fell asleep in about three seconds and promptly began snoring like a lumberjack. Dean hid the laptop in the trunk of the Impala and went for lunch at the bar down the street. Although the bar was mostly empty at this time of day, a young man in a suit and tie was shooting pool by himself.

Dean thought about their rapidly diminishing cash supply, and how Sammy generally sucked at hustling pool – or hustling anything else, for that matter. What in the hell was he going to do for money after Dean was gone? Get a job? Knowing Sam's discomfort with credit card fraud, he probably would. And try to hunt on the side, which would exhaust him. An exhausted hunter was a potentially hurt or _dead_ hunter.

When Dean finished his sandwich – with the obligatory side of Boston Baked Beans so common in this area of the country – he sauntered over to the guy. It didn't take much to get him to agree to a game or three. The guy – Anthony something or another – was surprisingly talented. But Dean was better. And soon enough, he'd pocketed $300, a fair take for a slow afternoon.

"You're good," Anthony told him, with a knowing smile. "I've been hustling since I was ten, and you're one of the best I've seen."

Dean gave him a skeptical once over. "You?"

Anthony shrugged. "Yeah, I know I don't look it, with the suit and tie and all. I'm respectable now. Sort of, anyhow."

"Reformed?"

Anthony chuckled. "Not really. I'm a stockbroker. I have an office down the street. If you want to double that $300 I can recommend some good options for you."

"Yeah?" Now, _this_ was an idea Dean had never considered. He was intrigued, despite himself. "Let me buy you a beer."

Anthony turned out to be a pretty interesting guy. Recognizing a fellow hustler in Dean, he wasted no time in recommending stocks in Optimum Plus, some computer company in New Jersey that was getting ready to debut a new, affordable computer case in fourteen different colors. "Trust me. The big companies will subcontract with them to supply them with the cases, and their stocks will go through the roof." Anthony checked his watch. "By this time tomorrow you can probably triple your $300."

Dean didn't know much about stocks, true, but something didn't sound right.

"How do you know about this company?"

Anthony looked around, cagey, and dropped his voice. "I've got some … reliable information that Dell, HP, and IBM have already made agreements with them."

"Reliable information … like insider information? As in insider trading?"

"Shhhhhh!" Anthony said. "Insider trading is highly illegal. Think of this as advancing your luck, instead."

Well, he was all for that. "Illegal doesn't bother me. Highly illegal, though …." Dean was already wanted for murder and bank robbery. What could be worse than that? He might as well go for the gusto. "What do you get out of this, anyway?"

"As a stockbroker I get a commission on every share you buy." Anthony took a sip of his beer, then mentioned casually, "Although, if you appreciate the tip, and want future tips, I do accept a small, under-the-table commission."

Small turned out to be 25. But what the hell? He didn't really have much to lose. People got rich off the stock market every day, right?

They walked to Anthony's office where he signed a bunch of papers as Axel Rod, one of his favorite aliases (_two_ rock star names in one, dude). He forked over his $300 and his cell number. Then, Anthony walked him down the street to a newspaper vendor and showed him how to check the stock page for the daily prices.

---

Turned out that Anthony wasn't exactly truthful. Dean didn't triple his money by the next day. He doubled it the following day.

Nice.

Real nice.

The next time he escaped research he opened a bank account, and looked into money market options.

---

It took Sam almost a week before he could walk without grimacing, but despite that, he didn't pay much attention to the doctor's orders. Dean reminded him every morning and every evening to do his stretching exercises, which he did half-heartedly. He'd ditched the Vicodin in favor of Advil since it didn't muddy up his thinking. He kept the hunching to a minimum when Dean was around, but Dean suspected that Sam didn't bother after he'd left for the day. Old habits were hard to break.

And new ones were hard—and uncomfortable--to form.

Still, Dean sucked it up. His opportunity came soon enough. One night, after a steaming hot shower, Sam pulled an old pair of running shorts on stiffly and flopped down on his bed. He stifled his groan of pain with a quick glance at Dean. Dean nearly rolled his eyes. Sam had never quite caught on to the finer points of hiding pain – physical or emotional.

Dean reached into his duffel bag and pulled out the bottle of Almond oil he'd bought at The Body Shop earlier that day, after a friggin' 6 mile walk to find that damn place. Trying to ignore the utter weirdness of it, he crawled onto the bed beside Sam. Sam opened his eyes and stared at Dean liked he'd sprouted two heads.

"Dude? What the hell?"

"Turn over," Dean said as casually as possible. "I know your back is hurting again. I'm giving you a massage."

"But--"

"But nothing. I don't want to be dragging your ass to the doctor again tomorrow."

Sam looked downright suspicious. "Look, I'll probably feel a lot better in the morning. You don't have to do this."

"Yeah, doofus. I know."

"I don't know …"

Dean sighed. "What is it?"

"You always said that male massage therapists were kind of …"

"Gay?" Dean supplied. God, the indignities he was willing to suffer for his brother. Would they ever end? "They probably are. Spending your days rubbing dudes up and down? Not my idea of a good time. But I've had enough of watching you gimp around like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Anyhow, you can relax. I haven't changed teams."

Sam looked relieved.

"Yet," Dean said, unable to resist. "Now turn over, will you?"

Carefully, Sam did as he asked, folding his arms and resting his forehead on them.

The sight of the long, red scar along Sam's spine made Dean's throat tighten. He didn't think he'd ever seen an uglier wound. Dean knew it was still sore, too. His own deep wounds were often tender for months after they had healed.

Dean squirted a generous amount of oil into his palm, allowing it to warm to his skin temperature before smoothing it on Sam's back. It glistened in the lamplight. Slowly, he placed his thumbs on either side of Sam's spinal column, just below the juncture where his neck and shoulders met and began rubbing in firm, but gentle circles. The almond oil felt like silk under his callused fingertips, much smoother and lighter than jojoba oil, and not slippery like that god-awful baby oil shit.

Immediately, Sam relaxed, letting out a hiss of release. All the grave-digging they did on a regular basis had given both of them muscled shoulders. Although Sam was leaner than him, his muscles were so tightly corded that the skin felt stretched thin over them. The kid needed to eat more – fatten himself up some. It was strange touching the back of someone so hard and wide. He was used to chicks' backs, all small and slender and soft.

He slid his index finger between the knobs of Sam's spine, lightening his touch at these sensitive spots, and firming it again as he rubbed vertically on either side of the spinal column. He had to force his gorge down when he reached the massive scar that had signaled the end of his little brother's life.

The thick ridge of muscles on either side of the small of Sam's back were especially tight. Dean flattened his hands and slid them outward from his backbone, wrapping them around his sides and moving upward until he came to Sam's shoulder blades. Sam shivered at that, then alternated between making little gasping noises and deep hums in the back of his throat. The humming grew louder when Dean hit an especially tight spot.

"God, Dean," Sam breathed. "You're some sort of magic worker. How did you learn to do this?"

Dean didn't pause in his ministrations. "Julie Mendoza." He smiled. "I met her in Atlanta one summer when Dad got himself thrown in the county jail for a week for drunk driving--"

"Dad what--?" Sam began. He'd been at Stanford, then.

"Long story. Doesn't really matter. Point is, I met Julie at a club and we had one date. It lasted 3 days. Talented girl, Julie. She taught me how to give a massage, and how to give--"

"I don't think I want to know," Sam said quickly.

Yeah. Probably not a good idea to go into Julie's many and varied sexual talents when he had his hands all over Sam's body. Didn't want to frustrate the kid.

The heat coming off his brother's body from the recent shower made the oil more slippery. Now that he'd learned the mounds and valleys of his brother's flesh, Dean could feel the knots under his skin. Starting in a circle at the edges of the knots, he kneaded them, pausing at times to press his thumb into pressure points.

Sam groaned, then started to murmur, "Oh … yeah. Right there. Mmmm …"

When he started honest-to-God _moaning_, Dean finally paused, disturbed. Sam lifted his head groggily.

"What's wrong?"

"Dude …. the _noises._ You gotta tone them down." It sounded a bit too much like he was getting his brother off. And he didn't _even_ want to go there.

Sam let his head back down as though it was too heavy for him. "Oh, sorry," he mumbled into the bed covers. "Just feels good. Don't stop, 'kay?"

"'Kay."

From then on Sam kept quiet while Dean worked, massaging until the oil had soaked into his skin and Sam lay limp and knot-free under his hands.

Dean clambered off the bed, hearing his knee joints pop from being in one position for too long. Sam lay still, not noticing Dean's departure.

"Sam?" Dean asked quietly.

Sam didn't answer. But he did start making noises again.

Soft, exhausted snores, this time.

---

Two days later, Sam came home from the library looking tired, but happy.

"Remember that lead I told you about? It panned out. We need to head north to a convent in Nova Scotia. The Sisters of Eternal Harmony. They've been casting demons out of people for centuries on the QT. The Church doesn't really approve these days, but they send their most difficult cases to the nuns. And get this, they've become specialists in demon-human communication."

Dean waited for the punch line.

"As in deals."

"Yeah?" Dean said, hope kindling a fire in his chest despite himself.

"Yeah." Sam smiled. "We leave first thing in the morning."

---

Sam was jamming clean socks in his duffel when he noticed the folded newspaper page lying partially concealed under his bed.

Oh, shit. Why did he have to notice everything? Fucker.

Of course, Sam picked it up. It was the stocks page, covered with Dean's scrawls, circles and exclamation points around certain companies.

He held up the page. "Dude, this is the _stock market_ page. Why'd you write all over it?"

Dean shrugged. "I'm playing the stock market."

Sam gaped. "You're what?"

"Think I'm too stupid to figure it out?" He zipped his duffel bag.

"What? Of course not." Sam's voice took on that whiny, outraged tone. "I just didn't know you had an interest in that."

"Well, I do."

Sam took a deep breath, jaw working. He went back to stuffing clothes in the duffel bag. Except that now he did it rather … forcefully. "Since when?" His voice sounded tight.

Dean peered at him, annoyed. "What is this, twenty questions? Since we've been here. What does it matter?"

Sam paused, his body going still and rigid in the same way he did when they were about to burst through the door with guns blazing. He took a deep breath, then threw the remaining clothes on the bed and paced back and forth, fists clenching. Dean watched him, thinking, _What the hell?_

"You've got to stop this, Dean. Right now," Sam said in a tight, angry tone.

Dean asked cautiously, "Stop what?"

"This 'living life to the fullest because I'm dying in 10 months time' crap. You're NOT dying, man. You're just not. So stop telling me you love me and giving me frickin' back rubs and playing the stock market to provide for me after you …" Sam stopped, his face twisting. He looked on the verge of tears.

"Sammy, come on …."

"No!" Sam cried. "I need you to believe me on this. I need you to have faith in me. Now, more than ever."

They looked at each other in silence. Dean could hear Sam's choked, rasping breath. Oh, God. Apparently, Sam hadn't had his emo quotient for the month and was planning on making up for it. In spades, right now. Dean bit back his usual angry reaction. Okay, then. Time for compassion. Damn it. Dean swallowed, then approached Sam. He opened his arms to embrace his brother.

But instead of falling into Dean's arms, Sam just looked pissed off. "This is what I'm talking about. You're _Dean_! You do _not _hug me!"

"Hey!" Dean protested. "I do, too. There was that time when you were dead. And that other time when you came back to life. Twice is a pattern … isn't it?" Then, Dean paused as something occurred to him. "Hold on just a minute. Are you saying that you don't _want_ me to hug you?" He had never even considered that Sam didn't want him to cry on his shoulder and blubber about his feelings.

"No, you moron! I want _you_ to be _you_!"

Dean considered this for a moment. Could it be he was all wrong …? Could it be that Sam didn't want him spilling his guts at every turn?

"Yeah?" He asked uncertainly.

"Yeah. I can't take 10 more months of you going all touchy feely on me. It freaks me out, dude. Big time."

"But … I thought you liked all that shit. You seemed to, anyhow."

Sam looked uncomfortable, hunching down in that way that made him look so young. He kicked at the bed, cheeks reddening. "I do like it, okay?" He admitted. "I mean, most of it. You telling me you love me was great. The sunrise – that was amazing. And the back rub? God! I guess you could tell that I liked that. But I don't want you doing this stuff because you think I need it. What I _need_ is for you to be the way you are. That's why I'm trying to save you. Assmunch."

Well, then. Sam just tossed one surprise after another at him. Committing to save him from the demon deal. Rejecting a hug. Dean kinda liked it.

Sam went on. "If it makes you feel any better, maybe--just _maybe--_after you've been a real asshole, I'll let you make it up to me by working out these knots in my back. You are pretty good at causing them to begin with."

Dean smiled, then leaned forward and smacked Sam on the side of the head. "You asked for it, dickwad."

Sam looked ready to retaliate for a moment, then the anger drained from his face. He grinned. The kid always was a quick study. Dean looped an arm around his shoulders. So what if he had to reach up to do that? He was already feeling taller and lighter, now that the boulder on his shoulders had toppled off.

"Come on, Sasquatch. Let's get going."

On the way out the door, Sam asked, "So what's the damage so far? With the stocks."

Dean cast a sidelong glance at him. "Well, you know. It's an uncertain market …"

"Yeah, I know," Sam sighed. "We got enough for tonight's hotel?"

"Sure. Maybe even tomorrow night's," Dean replied. Sam flattened his lower lip in that way he did before saying, _those are the breaks_.

"Think $6,873 will be enough?"

The look on Sam's face made him smile for a long time.

--End

Note: Written for LiveJournal's Schmoopfest. I see, however, that I really wasn't supposed to post it until late August. Guess I should have read those instructions BEFORE writing it. (Please, don't tell!) Anyhow, my prompt was: "Dean/Sam - a healing, relaxing massage." I'm sure the prompters were expecting Wincest out of it, but I'm afraid I'm not quite there yet. Thanks for taking the time to read! Hope you'll comment to let me know what you thought!


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